


Death and Insanity

by emikawaii



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Insanity, Insightful!Harry, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Multi, Slash, bashing, depressed!harry, idk more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-04-01 01:08:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13987185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emikawaii/pseuds/emikawaii
Summary: Harry is thrown into Azkaban at the end of Prisoner of Azkaban, for 'conspiring against the Ministry'. None of his so called 'friends' stand up for him, and in the end, it is a long 4 years before he is gotten out, for it was time Albus Dumbledores weapon to be used.This is my first time writing fanfiction, and while i know this trope and story line are very common/basic, i hope you enjoy my take!





	1. The Musing of Insanity

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter, however, the words written are my own.  
> This is my first story, so please be kind?  
> The premise of this story is Harry being insane and not forgiving his 'friends' after being thrown into Azkaban. I feel those stories are usually very unrealistic, because he knows (in my story at least) that his friends have betrayed him, and because he got a trial, there is no hope of anyone really finding out the truth, and so has no hope to hold onto, unlike Sirius who had his obligation to Harry, and his innocence that had a possibility of being proven if one were to look into it. I hope you like it???

It had been his third year when he was thrown away as though broken, or unwanted.

A discarded, broken, toy.

He still didn’t know why he was here, and no one ever answered when he had asked in the beginning.

Or well, they did answer. But not the way he wanted.

It was either silence, or cutting remarks, or questions about why he had done it.

Done what?

That hurt him, because these people thought he had done something, and while he didn’t know what, he assumed it had been bad. 

Well, everything hurt here.

His head, his feet where they had frozen to the point of going blue, his legs that would no longer straighten, his hands that would not grasp anything, and his arms that would not lift.

He didn’t know if that was just the cold, or if it was an effect of not getting any food for weeks on end. Perhaps it was even a curse, placed upon him when he had left that farce of a trial.

His brain ran slowly, on a good day. On a bad day, it was quick, and panicked, and scared and it ran so fast, and then panic would seize him, and the dementors would rush to the cell, to add to that horrible, horrible feeling of drowning.

Although, in the darkness that cloaked his cell hour after hour after hour, he wouldn’t be surprised if many other days would be like this, cloaked in that drowning depressive energy.  
He didn’t even know if he existed anymore.

He just was.

He lay back, resembling for all the world a starfish.

The darkness was soothing, until it wasn’t. But alas, such things were like that.

Just as the lack of sleep was. His mind would write such wonderful stories, and he wondered if he would ever write them down? It also saved him the dreams he knew would crawl into his brain.

Oh how he hated the dreams.

But it also tired him out, making him sleep for longer when it finally came time too.  
He supposed it was just the way things were. 

There was no light without shadow, after all.

Although, there was the absence of light, such as he was in now. Was that shadow? Or did it still follow the rule, because you had to describe it using the word ‘light’? 

He supposed it was more that he wouldn’t know there was an absence of light, if light didn’t exist.

And on his mind continued.


	2. False emotions are unsettling

He didn’t know how how long he had been there. In that hole.

The consuming black that sucked his warmth removed any and all indicators of the passage of time.

Well, not all indicators.

He knew it was moving as his hair grew, and food came, not taking into account how long the intervals between felt; he just assumed that was just hunger making him think so.

There wasn’t much noise down here either, just his breathing, and every so often the sound of his stomach crying with agony.

There was also the swishing of the things that took his happiness, like the cloaks he remembered from what felt to be so long ago. 

Sometimes he thought it was just one long elaborate dream, that he had yet to wake from.  
But then the fucking terrifying feeling of having your happiness or even tranquility ripped from you, only to be replaced with those memories you have to face over and over and _over and **Over and Over**_ \---

Well, then it’s more a nightmare.

It was coming up to that time again, he knew.

Because he could feel the cold creeping into his bones. Those moments along with his mind, those memories, of things he had dealt with or repressed for his own sanity long ago, pushed away, was coming to an end.

And he felt the ripping feeling start, his happiness over such a small thing as peace pulling in his mind, in his chest.

It didn’t _hurt_ so much as make him want to cry, or scream.

In frustration, or fear, or hate, or desperation, he wasn’t sure.

He just knew what he knew, and he knew he wanted it to end.

And then something else came to an end.

The darkness the inky black shadows that had housed him all this time, had lifted.

The light, bright and sharp made him whimper, and attempt to hide his eyes.

It was too _bright_.

And then the next time he looked up, there were people standing near him, the front one holding a stick thing -like he used to! - and waved it in a fancy pattern.

The doors he hadn’t felt, or seen in a long time fell away as though it was easy to do so, and the man walked closer.

He moved further away, still blocking his eyes as best he could from the harsh white light, and the twinkling eyes of this man.

The man looked menacing, and calculating, as if he was just a toy, ready to be broken again.

“Come, you’re free now!” The eyes sparkled even more. He suspected it was supposed to be merry, but came out unsettling and false.

If you had to fake such emotions, but still wanted that image, what kind of person were you underneath?

He also didn’t answer the unsaid questions.

There were many, hanging in the air.

Many just tedious, boring ones, such as _‘That’s him?’_ and _‘Are you still coherent enough to understand us’_

So he didn’t answer, and stared blankly.

“Come my boy, we have much to do” The old man tried again, and still he stared, then moved to back away further, half crawling, half dragging himself tighter against his wall.

“I was afraid this would have happened…” the old man sighed theatrically, projecting his voice to those behind him.

“I am truly sorry, my boy” And everything went black.


	3. Is Death an Adventure?

The next time he woke, it was dark again.

A perfect, silent dark.

There was nothing but his breathing, and the heavy things covering his body.

He was warm, and felt… _safe_ , two things he hadn’t felt in a _long_ time.

It was... _nice_ , but he was worried there was a catch.

Were the soul suckers here too? 

He quickly threw this idea out the proverbial window. He didn’t feel as though it would happen. There was no swishing. There was _always_ swishing. The swishing had never stopped.

It had been a constant companion in the time he had spent in the dark, and it _had. Never. Stopped._

And now it had.

Maybe he had died?

Yes, that sounded plausible.

They had always said that when you died, there was light. He had seen light, yes?

If this was death, he was happy.

Death seemed kind, to give him _blankets_ as well as quiet! 

No wonder Dumbledore had once said death was an adventure, never had he slept quite this well.

This truly _was_ an adventure!

He wanted this warmth and quiet forever.

Alas, it was not meant to be, and he was sure that maybe this was the adventure.

Maybe it was an epic quest, or maybe a raid, or an inventing task.

Who knows!

So he opened his eyes, and met the light again.


	4. Death would be better

There were people peering over him when the light finally cleared from his eyes.

They didn’t seem to be doing much, let alone notice the eyes squinting in their direction.

He thought he saw a person or two he recognised, but there really wasn’t a lot of distinction from one blur to another.

It was then he decided to speak.

Perhaps these people were the ones to give him his adventure?

“Am I... dead?”

It was soft, and he hated the sound of the raspy undertone, but he was more impressed than anything that he could still speak after going so long without even trying.

He couldn’t see the effect of his words on the people around his bed, but he felt the sudden coldness of something like anger, and then hard footsteps rounded the… bed, was it?

A soft chuckle answered him, and a calloused hand stroked his forehead.

“Dead? No, you are very much alive.”

It was such a soothing voice, rough but smooth and infused with hidden warmth.

He felt safe for the first time since he stepped into the castle for the first time, although he knew all too well how that turned out.

That was the reason he tensed, listening around as the hand continued its repetitive movements.

There was the breathing coming from beside him, an obvious thing, and the slight friction against the person's clothing and another cloth material, probably the what… bedsheets? That he was lying under.

“Oh. Can I... be... dead?” he whispered back, squinting again in an attempt to make out this person from his hazy memories.

The voice didn’t match anything for him.

“I would rather you not be, my boy.” Another voice spoke, and he could hear a kind of false injected warmth in it.

He frowned.

“A...nd I’d rath...er... die.” was the bland answer.

There was a sharp intake of breath.

“My dear boy, there is no reason for you to want that!” The old voice said, and he sneered, though he didn’t know how well it fared against this fake sounding person.

“Wh...ere am... I?” He asked instead of responding, letting this old fool think he was the winner  
“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, my boy!” The old voice answered, and he just wanted the smoother first voice back.

“W...hy.”

No inflections, just a question.

“We assumed you would care to complete your education in the company of your friends.”  
He blinked.

“Fr...ien...ds?”

He did not remember friends.

“Yes, my boy! Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley. They will be in later so that you can talk!”

He didn’t know quite what to think.

Those two names brought back memories, some good, filled with warmth and books and laughter. But there were memories filled with betrayal and hate and fear and anger ( _and anger and anger)_ and he didn’t know _why_.

So he shrugged and lay further down into the blankets, ignoring the old man in exchange for sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, two faces were peering down at him, one surrounded by a halo of dark caramel curls, and the other a flaming torch.

This was such a recurring happening in his memory that it was easy to put a name to the blurs.  
There was silence. 

It was like a cloak, thick and blanketing, and made him uncomfortable.

He longed to send them away, to make them hurt like he did.

But would they leave if he asked? Would they bend to Harry’s wants just this one time? Or would they stay?

“M...ay you… go?” He rasped, trying to implore these two people he remembered fondly from so long ago, and the not so more recently. “I… want… t...o sle...ep…”

The caramel blur seemed to chuckle, though instead of sounding warm, it was a dark kind of amusement, such as that of a torturer while you plead for death.

Maybe that was what this was?

He certainly wanted death, and these people were keeping it from him!

“Not until you forgive us, Harry! We _are_ sorry, you know.”

Forgiveness? Wasn’t forgiveness something… earned? Not given, or demanded as his girl was doing.

Harry didn’t know why, but this pissed him off.

All he wanted was to sleep, to return to the blissful unawareness of consciousness.

But these two people, or rather, one right now, for the torch was keeping silent, just standing over his bed, was keeping him from it.

It made Harry frustrated

Not furious, but… frustrated.

There was no need for this person -or perhaps both looming over his bed- to need forgiveness this bad, and if Harry was honest, he didn’t know why they were oh so suddenly sorry for how they had treated him.

He knew it couldn’t be sincere, for why now, and why were they - _she_ \- so demanding over getting it.

Surely it couldn’t mean that much to either, for they -she, he had to remind himself again, for the torch had yet to open his mouth - would not leave him alone to sleep, or even stop begging long enough for him to decipher what was actually being said.

For that was what the Caramel blur was doing. 

The words spilled from the pink splodge on the caramel skin faster than what Harry thought was possible, but none made sense, and none made Harry want to forgive this witch.

He just lay there, listening to the pleas for forgiveness, but not once did the girl say why she was sorry, as if it hadn’t mattered what she had done to have to get his forgiveness in the first place.  
Neither did she actually ask for forgiveness, she just wailed about how she ‘deserved to be forgiven’ because she had been such a good friend

“Y...ou dem...and such…. A… th...ing…?” Harry rasped, breaking the dark caramel blur from her words.

The girl seemed to pull herself up, and Harry could practically taste the fury the girl held for him breaking her words, and contempt for his person in general.

This was another point Harry didn’t understand…

This girl obviously hated him, or at least wanted nothing to do with him, so why, why now was she demanding forgiven-

Then it hit him.

He was out of Azkaban.

His popularity would have skyrocketed in the media, the angle of his person being framed and innocent, only getting through these tough times of regaining sanity and being brought ‘back into the light’ by the careful hands of those he called friends.

This was why forgiveness was being pushed upon him.

Not because of a guilty consciousness, like Harry would have thought, for he knew there were to be some that demanded forgiveness to merely fill the hole in which the guilt had dug out.

Nor because of an actual want of forgiveness, not just a guilty consciousness in need of reassurance.

Harry was once again frustrated.

He was being used by this girl -for he knew the torch had yet to prove any type of want for forgiveness, so he could not be judged - and he _hated_ it.

He had hated it when Dumbledore had started in first year, and hated it when the Dursleys had started on his third birthday, and hated it when he had entered the wizarding world, and every child there had wanted to meet him, or sit with him, for their own personal gain of getting to say they were ‘friends’ with the saviour.

He just wanted to sleep.

“I… will… n..ot… give… y...ou… such… a… thi...ng”

He was frustrated with that as well, his voice and how slow he had to speak.

His mind was running faster and faster, and he wanted the words _out_!

He wanted to _scream_ them at the idiotic girl, make her cry and make her feel real regret and guilt for throwing him away.

But, alas, it was not meant to be.

The girl just kept speaking, and Harry could not scrounge up the energy to yell, or even speak at this moment

He didn’t know for how long the idiot continued to ramble over the reasons why he should ‘forgive and forget’ and welcome her back into his circle with open arms and a smile. 

Why he should not actually get an apology, not one ‘I am sorry for doing such a thing’.

And then Harry wanted to cry. 

He wanted to scream in anguish.

Why did it always come down to his friends, the first he had ever referred to as friends, hurting him worse than his Uncles belt ever had?

He would gladly accept a sincere apology, though perhaps not from this caramel haired devil.  
He still lay there, wishing to wake, to find himself dead or back in his cell, where noone bothered him except the soul-suckers.

Harry was surprised to find damp tears falling from his eyes, landing on his lap in a puddle of misery.

The girl didn’t even notice.

She just kept going, reiterating points she had made several times, but with more emphasis, more ‘feeling’.

More emphasis, as she realised the words were not working, that they were not being taken in and thought over, that, instead, they were being heaped in a pile at her own feet.

Harry likened it to drowning slowly in your own mistakes, for you could never take words back.  
Once they were said, there was _nothing in the world_ that could take them back.

Well, maybe ‘Obliviate’ would make you forget, but it could be removed, and the base emotions that a person held for another wasn’t changed so much as hidden under fake.

But Harry really thought he might drown.

The light and the noise, they were getting to be too much, and he wanted to scream, or push them away, or duck under his covers.

_Anything_ to get away from it all.

So he did.

Or tried to anyways.

Harry pulled his blanket over his head, attempting to hide from the sunlight and successfully blocking most of the ‘white noise’, aka Hermione's voice.

It took a long time before the voice stopped, and Harry could have sworn there was a pout when she stopped.

Then the blanket was tugged away from his face, and Harry cried out in loss.

The bossy girl stood over him, the blanket held away, and Harry shivered.

The girl probably thought it was in something akin to… fear, perhaps?- and a wide smirk, or what seemed like a smirk, crawled across her face.

It held very smug tones, as far as Harry could read, as well as satisfaction and… something else Harry couldn’t name.

Maybe it was happiness? For getting him to ‘fear’ her?

Harry didn’t know, and frankly didn’t care.

Now all he wanted was his blanket, and the girl to leave him to sleep.

Reaching for the blanket, the girl tutted and ripped it from the bed, dumping the white blurred bundle onto the floor.

Then she started speaking again.

Looking around, quite pointedly ignoring the useless rambling, Harry realised the torch had left, whether to report to Dumbledore, to get away, or to get food, he had no clue, and no real want to know.

Tuning back into the caramel blur, he realised she was re-stating all the reasons Harry needed to forgive her and Ron, and he wanted to laugh.

‘You must forgive us, Harry! If you don’t, you’ll go _Dark_!’ ‘Your parents were kind and would have forgiven us! They probably wouldn’t have even been in Azkaban in the first place!’ ‘It’s the only way to get past this time in your life, Harry! You can’t just harbour all this hate! You’ll go dark!’

Harry scoffed internally at them all.

As if it was _his fault_ he was in Azkaban! Who was it that had testified that it _was definitely him, Minister! I think i’d know my_ best friend _or the last three years!_

And what was this about going dark?

Had someone been ingesting too many Lemon Drops again?

Harry snickered internally at the thought. Of _course_ Madame Hermione ‘teachers are gods among men’ Granger was listening to Dumbledore.

If it wasn’t horrendously sickening to even think about, Harry would make a joke about Granger shacking up with the elderly man.

Ugh, even the thought made him gag.

And so, once again, he was frustrated, for he could cry out and defend himself, he couldn’t do anything about the words said.

Then it was silent.

Blissfully silent.

It made Harry want to cry in sheer _relief_.

And so he tucked his arms and legs into his chest, keeping as much warm as possible, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Nothing could have made him open his eyes once more.

Not to see a thick blue shield erupt from his back.

Not to see Hermione Granger, mouth vanished, attempt to scream and when that failed, turn to run to her _oh so dear_ Headmaster.

Or even to see the Torch shuffle back into the room awkwardly and sit in one of the bedside chairs.

He couldn’t have even moved to see the Torch lean down and pick the soft blanket up and lay it softly over the sleeping boy, who looked as old as five with his limbs tucked up and under him as he shivered on the bed.

And he couldn’t have moved to see the Torch sit down once again, hide his face in his hands, and sob for the lost mind of his friend, the lost innocence, and the lost years.

For Harry was dead to the world, and nothing else mattered.


	5. Silence is good

When he once again woke, his eyes _burned_.

That, annoyingly, was becoming a theme.

What he could make out of the room had not changed, other than… A banket.

Draped across him was a blanket. The very same blanket that had been on the floor when he had gone to sleep.

He wasn’t insane enough to think it was his doing, for even if he was physically strong enough to get off the bed, or even move, he would not have wanted to, for once he was asleep, he was _asleep_.

But, because of prompt hospital staff, Harry had no time to muse, before he was bombarded with over enthusiastic Medical attention, when all he wanted to do was be left alone in his comforting silence.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Madam Pomfrey’s idle chatter as she worked, it was interesting to find out what had happened since he was gone, but he just would have rather not heard it right at that moment.

He couldn’t even just fall asleep, because every time he tried his eyes opened seconds later, with Madam Pomfrey's wand pointed at his forehead.

So he just lay back, probably looking unresponsive and insane, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Maybe it was just the overexposure to dementors that was making him like this, a relapse if you will.

Maybe it was just the constant and steady silence he craved, from all the way back to when he was in his cupboard. When he would sit still and just _breath_ , relishing in the silence before he had to be awake and subjected to his Uncle and Aunt.

Maybe he was just tired.

Harry didn't know, and he didn’t really care for analysing why he couldn’t bring himself to move any more than to blink or twitch.

He just knew he wanted quite and to sleep.

And then the chattering stopped.

The silence returned.

And Harry could have once again cried from relief.

He could still feel Madame Pomfrey working, the telltale prickling of magic on his skin, but she wasn’t talking.

Maybe she had given up on a response, or run out of things to say?

Harry didn’t know, and didn't want to know- that would involve talking and that was the last thing he wanted.

So he focused on the prickling feeling of magic, relishing in how warm and kind it felt.

He allowed the feeling to pull him under, focusing only on that feeling.

And before he knew it, he was jolting awake, heart beating from his chest.

The room was still, all but for the curtain covering the window closest to him, as it swayed in the light breeze coming through.

He wanted to get up, stand in the window, feel the breeze, see the stars, but just the thought of standing sapped him of energy and once again the tears of frustration were back.

It wasn't as if it was difficult, it was a two second walk, but even if he could find the energy and the motivation, he knew his legs would not hold him.

And so he lay back, and hoped with all his heart that sleep would once again take him.


	6. Comfort

The next month was hell. Or at least, it felt like it.

He couldn’t stand, bathe, eat, or drink on his own. Pomfrey was always around, but was silent, with just a few murmured commands or spells. He didn't know why she was so quiet, but he appreciated it.

He slept all the time he wasn’t being force fed or bathed, and he gained some weight back. According to Pomfrey it was still not enough.

What did he care? The potions were nasty and made him feel ill, and the food bland and dry. The only thing he enjoyed was the bath he got once a week, as he was left alone save a house elf for an hour.

He felt no different than when he had first been gotten from Azkaban. He was still exhausted at every moment of the day. He still couldn't bring himself to move, or speak after those first few words. If anything he felt worse!

There just wasn't any point.

...although there never had been a point. Even when he was younger… But he didn't dare dwell on that.

He considered turning down the potions next time they were brought out and forced down his throat. But some innate part of him knew that they were helping, that they would help him get better. But it was so hard! The potions were slimy or thick and didn't go down well, and didn't sit well.

He was always nauseous, and felt jittery and restless, had he had the energy or motivation to move.

Everything was just so… frustrating. The need and want to scream was building slowly, had been since his first day in this white room.

He couldn't even see properly, for gods sake.

But thoughts like this left him drained, and all he wanted to do was sleep…

And so he did. Eyes drooping, and then closed. Breathing evening out to barely anything, so light you worried he would pass out from lack of oxygen.

It hit two months, from when he had first been released, and he was finally deemed fit enough to be moved from the hospital wing.

He had yet to actually see another living person other than the nurse, other than that first day, but now he was surrounded by them as he was moved. 

There were more torches, the bushy haired demon, the old twinkling man and a few who kept back, hiding in the shadows, or at least, out of his range of vision.

The light outside his ‘room’ was painfully bright, his heartbeat thumping in time with the headache forming behind his eyes. The increase in light certainly didn't help with his vision, and what he could see was even more blurry, so much so that coloured blurs were all he could see.

What he could hear, on the other hand…

There was a lot of shouting, for one. It was loud, painfully so, just adding to the headache.

But there were soft whispers, murmuring really, brushing just on the edge of hs hearing. The voices sounded familiar, and sounded kind.

Then they were gone, drowned out by the horrible shouting, a wave of panic and dread washing through and over him. 

Then the waves stopped crashing over him. He sunk. Watching from under the surface, the crashing waves disturbing the surface, but the clear water around him keeping him calm. His lungs burned and when he opened his mouth fresh oxygen flowed into his body. 

The waves calmed.

The surface was smooth and glassy, but sound was distorted. The kind voices were back, but he couldn’t put a name to them.

He slowly rose to the surface, breaking the glass.

His breathing spiked, the panic rose again.

Then calmed.

The lights were dim, the voices soft. No yelling or bright sunlight.

Noone was too close to him.

He saw a flash of amber, and one of black. The torch was back as well. Madame Pomfrey was also around, he knew. He could smell her perfume.

He relaxed into the bed.

The voices speaking stopped, footsteps sounded close.

“Harry. How are you feeling?”

It was spoken… hesitantly? He couldn’t place the voice but it was the warm one, that sounded kind. It was a voice that would sound good laughing.

“...Better.”

His voice, scratchy, underused, broken. But his voice. Working without his consent.

He heard a stifled gasp from the corner of the room. It was one of awe, he thought, perhaps because he spoke?

He didn't dwell on it. More words were being spoken.

“The brat responds. Bodily functions are working as they should be, and body mass is back to what it was before. These two vials, one a day at 8 o'clock sharp.”

That was a harsh voice. Stern. Smooth but nasally.

He remembered that one, from long ago. He only remembered yelling, and something about potions. But it was more than he could say about the other voice so he patted himself on the back for small achievements.

He tuned back into the conversation, and realised it had become an argument.

The harsh voice was speaking sharply to Torch, with Madame Pomfrey interjecting on the Torches’ behalf. The warm voice didn’t seem to be a part of the argument. 

He realised why he didn’t hear the warm voice a second later, when a large hand settled into his hair, and the voice started saying soothing things.

It wasn’t something he had ever experienced before, this comforting gesture, and he went to flinch away.

But… something stopped him and instead he leaned into the touch, relishing in the soft words and comfort the hand gave.

He turned his eyes towards the body attached to the hand and did jolt back this time. The wolf man! The kind one who had known his parents!

But... what was his name?

The hand was once again running through his hair.

It started with an L…?

 

“L-lupin?”

The hand stopped.

Silence fell.

Then a soft sobbing noise came from the kind wolf-man.

He heard, more than saw the slow, shaky smile, then the man responded with a tearful ‘Yes, Harry.”

The Torch had come closer as well, sitting by his bedside, hands resting on the mattress. The harsh voice Harry couldn’t see.

Harry raised his right arm, it feeling heavy as lead, and rested it on the torches’ hands. 

The hand started again.

It was silent.

Then the Torch started to talk.

It started slow, little things here and there about how everything was, then it got more natural, however still in that soft, gentle tone, and soon enough he was lulled to sleep, dead tired but feeling slightly better than he had before.

He felt safe, and cared for. And Harry fell asleep under the touch of Remus Lupin and the voice of Ronald Weasley.


End file.
